


the cat who got the whipped cream

by bluecloak



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, FatT Rarepair Swap, Other, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecloak/pseuds/bluecloak
Summary: Tender owns a geographically indecisive little café called The Steady. Fourteen Fifteen is just your average body-swapping assassin who really likes...the coffee. Sure.





	the cat who got the whipped cream

**Author's Note:**

> for @queerlydeparted! you had a lot of great prompts but I went for a tenfour coffee shop AU because I am...who I am. sorry for the lateness! hope you enjoy.

The first time Tender meets them, they’re wearing an old raincoat and they tell her their name is Makepeace.

Outside, the streetlamps start to flicker off as the lightness of morning settles in, made hazy by a remnant drizzle. The shop is empty except for the two of them, yawning through the ritual of buying coffee. Over the radio, someone is singing an old song about long summer days and falling in love, the sound of it low and shrouded in static.

They order a black coffee and Tender scribbles their name down on a paper cup. The knuckle of her pinky smudges the last letter of it and she’ll carry that little bit of ink with her all day.

“Late night?” Tender asks idly, “Or early day?”

“Oh—the second one. I work on a fishing boat.”

It’s an exchange no different from dozens of others she’s had, and she won’t remember it at all—except for a moment back home, sinking into a well-deserved bath, when she finally sees the ink just as it’s running off.

But that’s temporary too.

               

\- -

 

Shit happens.

Tender likes to think she’s pretty philosophical in dealing with it.

Like, sometimes you run out of milk at the most milk-crucial moment. Sometimes you order fifty sacks of coffee beans instead of fifteen. Sometimes the vintage espresso machine that you’d thought was _so_ cute online jams because it has some personal problems with occupying the nebulous space between physical reality and the Mesh at the same time.  

Sometimes your ex-girlfriend tries to merge your brains into one big cyberbrain and you’re not like, super into that, but it gets you fired from priestessing anyway. So, you take some time off to really find yourself which is kind of difficult when your entire society is slowly crumbling to pieces a little bit maybe? And like, you’re not a control freak or anything, but some semblance of order over your life would be just so, so nice—you’re an architect for fuck’s sake, you like building things and well-laid blueprints and clear lines of _purpose_ —

Sometimes you have to get away from it all, you know? Sometimes you have to get away from it so much that you move off ship entirely, away from everything you’ve ever known. Sometimes that means regular brunches with your new mercy officer. Sometimes that means getting a fresh new wardrobe and changing your hair. Sometimes that means opening a migratory semi-secret cyber café. To cope. You know, normal stuff. And that’s fine. That’s _valid_.

Tender is _fine_.

“Yeah, that’s what I think of when someone says ‘self-care’,” Morning says to her, “ _Customer service._ ”

“You stress-bake for like, my whole shop,” says Tender. “How’s that working out for you?”

“I don’t know,” he says, meticulously lowering a tiny cloud of spun caramel onto a tart with a pair of tweezers, “Lemme get back to you.”

 

\- -

 

Morning’s Observation had walked into The Steady one night, parked himself in a corner booth, spent half an hour Not Crying into his hot chocolate, and had just sort of…stuck around.

The Steady is small enough (and magic enough) that it basically runs itself, but Tender appreciates having another pair of hands around the place.

“Try this,” says Morning, pointing two inches to the left of a plate. His attention is largely occupied with piping little swirls of cookies onto a baking sheet. The laser cutter fizzles ominously on the counter by his elbow next to some resting bread dough. The candy thermometer’s alarm goes off on the burner—someone had set it to “Cat Meow #4” and she honestly can’t remember which of them it was. Absently, Morning reaches over and turns the heat down.

Tender takes a piece from the plate and puts it in her mouth without thinking.

“Morning,” she says, a very long second later, “What is this?”

“It’s milk.”

“Milk,” she repeats, with no change in inflection.

Morning wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of flour. “I’m trying a new recipe.”

“Doesn’t milk already come ready-made? Like, basically?”

“I mean, yeah, but this is _different_.”

“And is it supposed to congeal into one big milk chunk?”

He huffs. “Nah. I’ve been messing with different stabilizers, but the texture always gets fucked up. It’s supposed to be like…stackable. Do you guys have Jenga here? Like that.”

Stackable.

Well, okay.

Tender squints at the plate. She can kind of see it. Maybe?

Now—

There isn’t anything as dramatic as an explosion or a shimmer of lights, not for something this small. The air just shifts a bit, a falter in that little space, a tilt in the minute contained.

“ _Stackable_ ,” Tender announces, wiggling her fingers at the plate suddenly full of neat, perfectly rectangular bricks of milk.

“You think you’re so cool,” Morning says, which is his way of telling her how cool he thinks she is. He can’t quite hide the grin dimpling the corner of his mouth. “Man, if I could just replicate that texture—hey, do you know where the agar powder is…?”

He pokes his head into a cupboard, only to poke it back out again.

“Did you eat yet?”

At her too-vague answer, he scowls and says, “I’m gonna make you a sandwich.”

Tender graciously allows him to do so. She constructs the milk into a tower while she waits.

The architecture is, of course, completely sound.

 

\- -

 

Strictly speaking, Tender isn’t supposed to be using her capital S Skills anymore, mostly because she shouldn’t have them at all now, after Open M—after. No one knows that she still has them. So she doesn’t use them.

Okay, not much.

The capricious interior and geography of The Steady can be explained away; that’s what the Mesh is for. Little things like Morning’s recipe won’t be noticed by anyone else. He wouldn’t tell them either—he very carefully doesn’t ask her about it, and Tender doesn’t ask him why he’d been sitting in her shop all those months ago. Everyone has wounds to look after, and both of theirs are still fresh.

But she _misses_ what she used to do. She misses the scale of it, the reach of it. It feels like homesickness for something as vast and innate as an entire ocean.

 

\- -

 

There’s a mail courier who trips into The Steady one day on a pair of light-up skates, a tailor who wears a ribbon of measuring tape looped around their wrist, and a writer who twists all their hair up with a ballpoint pen.

Got-the-Canary spills half the contents of their bag when their skates catch on some groove in the floorboards, but their cup of coffee emerges miraculously intact. They manage to recover all the letters, but leave their hat behind—a peaked hat, blue as a summer morning, flanked by tiny stylized wings. Tender keeps it aside just in case, but they never come back for it.

Sennet Palisade tells her how beautiful the stitching on her blouse is, the words tumbling out all in a clumsy rush like they’d just barely worked up the courage for it. They only come in a few times, always with some little comment about her outfit, and then they’re gone like they were never there to begin with.

Iambic Pentameter has a different answer every time Tender asks them what it is they’re writing. One day it’s a star-crossed romance, the next it’s a technical guide to portable gardening. They smile at her like they’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in just a little too long.

“What are you working on now?” Tender asks during a lull in the day.

“Sports,” Iambic replies, enigmatically. It’s her favorite answer so far.

It’s always the same order, and lately, the same table. It doesn’t have to mean anything; The Steady isn’t very big—“intimate” is how Tender likes to describe it, and there’s nothing especially unique about black coffee.

“The usual, please,” is all Iambic says, the first time they come in. “Have you done something different with your hair? It looks nice.”

Neither of them really talks about it. Tender wouldn’t even know where to start. Besides, she should know all about the hazards of curiosity by now.

She _does_ , but…

But.

 

\- -

               

You can tell from the minute they saunter into The Steady that they’re bad news—a holster strapped to their hip and a chip on their shoulder, all tall and mysterious like a criminal flamingo.

At least, that’s the impression they want to give off. The effect is ruined as soon as they open their mouth.

“Um,” they say, “Excuse me.”

Morning’s Observation, without looking up from the latte he’s making, gives Tender a nudge with his shoe. She automatically kicks it away with her own.

“Ouch, hey—”

Tender slips her phone into an apron pocket (not discreetly, because she owns the place, after all). “Hi, sorry. What can I get you?”

Maybe it’s how they look at her, like she’s some blessed, all-knowing bastion of caffeinated wisdom. Maybe it’s the way that, for all their peacocking, their holster is still empty. Maybe it’s just the smile.

They’re taller than they used to be.

“Black coffee?” says Tender, eyebrow raised.

A laugh, incongruously soft. “You know me, Tender.”

 

\- -

 

Love-in-Idleness, it turns out, is a creature of habit. Tender isn’t really surprised, given the precedent, but she is starting to wonder.

They come in a few times a week and always order the same thing: one small black coffee. No subtle nudging towards new items on the menu can sway them. No suggestions of syrup or whipped cream can seem to tempt them.

There isn’t any problem with that at _all_ , except for the fact that they clearly don’t enjoy it. She doesn’t think they ever have, actually.

She also remembers seeing a video once called “Kitten reacts to lemon slice!!!!!!”.

The narrative parallels are extremely compelling.

It isn’t the coffee itself, which Tender knows is as close to godliness as you can get without actually drinking it while piloting a Divine. It’s starting to chafe at her pride somewhat, though she’s not even sure if it’s personal or professional now.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try something else? I have sample cups. It’s super slow today. I could totally just do that.”

“No, no,” they’ll say, with a very sweet, very earnest smile, “It’s already perfect.”

It’s a tragedy.

“Fucked up,” says Morning’s Observation, sipping from his own cup of spiced hot chocolate because he understands the value of self-love and being true to your heart.

“Right?” Tender says. “I’m like, ‘is this a prank’? Is someone making you do this? Is this a penitence thing? _What did you do to deserve this?_ ”

“Maybe they’re trying to look cool. Impress someone.”

“They’re in _my_ shop,” she says darkly. “They already look cool.”

“Or maybe they’re like, way too polite? Maybe they don’t wanna insult your coffee-brewing skills or something. But they just suck at it.”

“I guess.”

But it does get her thinking.

The next time Love-in-Idleness shows up, Tender is _ready_.

“Great,” she says, bubbly with the bubbles of internal machinations. “You’re here. I need some help.”

She gestures to the pick-up end of the bar with an extravagant flourish, towards a beautifully arranged row of drinks of various personalities.

“There was a glitch,” she says, “in our espresso machine.”

Love-in-Idleness opens their mouth. Then they close it.

Tender can practically hear the gears in their head turning over the idea that _well_ , maybe espresso machines did work that way.

“What kind of help?” they say finally.

“These drinks are perfectly good but I’m going to need this counter space back,” she says. “Call them free samples if you want. Take any ones you like.”

They hover uncertainly by the bar and pick out a cup seemingly at random: a café miel, warm and fragrant with cinnamon and forget-me-not honey.

After that, well…they still need some persuading, now and then, but it’s much easier than before.

               

\- -

 

During a cold, stormy week, Tender introduces them to the hot chocolate menu—not as big, but still fairly extensive.

“Don’t forget the marshmallows,” Morning says, sliding a tray of freshly-made ones next to her on the counter.

There are rose-flavored ones, marbled peppermint ones, Forbidden Salt ones, and vanilla ones. All of them, instead of being the usual cube shapes, have been methodically and accusingly cut into the shapes of hearts.

Tender whips her head around and sees Morning’s Observation in the little cutout window to the kitchen. He gives her a solemn, blandly adolescent thumbs-up.

“Something wrong?” Love-in-Idleness asks.

“What? No! No. No, it’s fine. It’s cool. Did you want marshmallows?”

The way their eyes light up when they take the first sip almost makes up for the horrible marshmallow betrayal.

 

\- -

 

Tender runs a coffee shop, so it’s a given that she has witnessed a fair share of bad mornings. She can sympathize; there’s a reason why The Steady keeps such…interesting hours, though even that can’t totally avoid mornings.

This appears to be one of them.

“What _happened_ to you?” she says, her own lingering sleepiness forgotten.

Love-in-Idleness yawns, fingers hovering over their mouth in an oddly delicate gesture. Their clothes look like they’ve been slept in, and that they were also lightly trampled by horses while asleep. For all this alleged evidence of sleep, they don’t actually look like they got much of it. Meanwhile, their usual white shirt is bafflingly singed at the edges, and there’s a long tear along the left sleeve. To their credit, only one button seems to be missing.

There is a large, clumsily-applied bandage on their cheek, another wrapped around their wrist, and bruising peeking up from under their collar.         

“Just,” they say, with only a minimum amount of swaying, “Job stuff.”

“This is a _café_ , what the _fuck_ ,” says Tender, bewildered. “Go to a hospital!” And then, “I could take you? Do you need someone to take you? Right, I’ll take you—”

“I’ve already been,” Love-in-Idleness insists. “Okay, not a _hospital_ per se, but I did get fixed up. Medically! So can I have my coffee?” They pause. “Please?”

“You don’t even like coffee!”

“It’s only some coffee, and you can’t know that for sure, we haven’t exhausted the menu yet—”

They refuse to go get better medical help than what looks like the first-aid kit from someone’s bathroom cabinet, but Tender is at least able to bully them into sitting down.

She pushes a cup into their hands, trailing wisps of steam.

“What is this?” they say, already raising it to their lips. They blink hazily. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“Yeah, I know. I made it.” Tender watches them take another cautious sip. “It’s only a mellow herbal tea. You need less caffeine, not more. You’re _exhausted_. Listen, you can just…just nap on this couch, okay? Your job’s over, right? So you don’t have to be anywhere yet.”

She tries to stop everything she says from tailing off into a question. God, how did this taking care of people thing go again? This is why she always worked with _environments_ , structures didn’t argue with you and say odd shit and come into your shop looking like they lost a fight with a fireworks factory—

The paper cup drops gently from their hands onto the floor. Their breaths come deep and slow, eased into sleep.

Tender breathes out too.

Okay then.

She lifts a hand and twists the space around them _just_ so, fingers following the nostalgia of muscle memory. It’s not much. Just enough to make the couch more comfortable, the room a bit cozier, quieter. The blinds unfurl themselves, dimming the light from outside into something kinder.

It’s…fine. There isn’t anyone around to see. No one fully conscious, anyway.

The sign light on the door switches from _Open_ to _Closed_ all by itself.

Another hour or two won’t matter.

 

\- -

               

“My name is Fourteen Fifteen, actually.”

Tender pauses, easing the tip of her pen off the cup.

She doesn’t really need to bother with the writing this time. There isn’t anyone else in the shop this late at night, but she just wanted something to do with her hands.

It’s been a few days since she last saw them— _Fourteen_ , Fourteen Fifteen, and now everything feels weird. She’s not too sure what to say either.

The bandage on their cheek is gone, revealing a thin, healing cut that looks sure to scar.

“Right, Fourteen.” She picks up the pen again. “You feeling better, then?”

“Yes! That’s why—” There’s a rustle, and a wrinkled paper bag is pushed in front of her.

“I wanted to thank you,” says Fourteen resolutely, squaring their shoulders, “For the other day.”

Tender stares, until she remembers it’s kind of rude.

Then, she reaches into the bag and pulls out…a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates, and a small basket of “aura-cleansing” citrus bath salts.

Huh.

“I was going to buy you a coffee,” Fourteen blurts out, “but, well, I thought that _you_ might think that was repetitive, and I don’t know what you usually get anyway. Unless you prefer tea, which, do you? And I couldn’t find a card that really, um, suited the occasion, so I ended up asking the person at the shop what would be good—” They cut themself off abruptly, focusing again on Tender.

They’re blushing, the hue warm against their brown skin. “I hope you like it.”

The thing is, she has never heard them sound this flustered. That, more than the wine and the chocolate and even the bath salts, is what catches her off guard.

“Oh—okay, I mean, yeah! I do,” she says. “That’s really sweet of you. Thanks.”

It looks like Fourteen has something else to say, but they only bite their lip and step back.

“Wait!” she says, “Just, just hold on a sec.”

“…Okay.”

“Look, I don’t want to be nosy,” Tender lies. Whatever. “But, uh, are you, like… _good?_ Because the other day—”

“My job is…complicated.”

“Well, yeah, that’s one word for it.”

“I didn’t say it was nice,” says Fourteen, shrugging hopelessly. “And I’m usually a lot better at it. Last time was bad luck.”

It is a wildly, astonishingly obvious lie, breathtaking in its naked audacity, and they both know it.

“Uh-huh,” says Tender.

“How long have we known each other, Tender?” they ask, looking at her meaningfully. “I’ve been coming in here for a while, right?”

Her ears twitch, annoyed.

“You can’t just give me meaningful looks like it’ll explain everything. _Tell_ me what you’re thinking.”

“I—” Fourteen sighs, scrubbing at their cheek. “All the names, and…everything else. They’re part of my job. You always know it’s me, though.”

“You always used to order the same thing and then make the same exact face drinking it,” Tender says, eyes narrowing. “It isn’t one that screams ‘mm, yum!’ by the way. I get all sorts of people in my shop, but there has only ever been one person who came in exclusively and _regularly_ to have a bad time.”

“I’ve had nice times,” Fourteen protests faintly. “I like it here.”

“I can tell it’s you,” Tender continues, “because you never act like a stranger. You always sit in your favorite spot, you pick up old conversations you couldn’t possibly remember unless you _were_ you, and you talk to me like we’ve been friends for a million years. So _yeah_. I can tell.”

“That’s because we _are_ friends,” says Fourteen, blinking. “I always come back because it’s quiet and pleasant and my job…isn’t. Here, I can just be the sort of person who sits in fancy cafés and eats croissants over crossword puzzles.”

 _Friends._ Tender wavers.

She should say something, something good and kind that could meet them halfway. Emotional vulnerability ahoy.

“I’ve never seen you do a crossword puzzle, like, ever.”

Good job, Tender Sky.

But Fourteen only grins, as sheepish as a sleepless night. “I always forget to bring one. I’m afraid I end up bothering you instead.”

Tender makes a noise that isn’t quite a sigh. She glances at her nails, runs the tip of her thumb along the edges. “You’re not bothering me.”

“Oh. Good.”

She’s not looking, but she knows smiling when she hears it.

“I only…” they say suddenly, and hesitate.

“Only what?”

“I wondered if you already knew the name. This name, I mean.”

“I don’t think so. Should I?”

“Oh,” says Fourteen, “No. No, maybe not. Probably not.”

 

\- -

 

When Signet and Tender met, there was a distinct, profoundly awkward moment of mutual _“wait, aren’t you—”_ that they as functional adults have been able to completely ignore ever since. This has led to a perfectly civil relationship where no one talks about what they used to do at all, ever.

Tender likes Signet. She’s like if a soothing ambient nature sounds app was a person. She drinks more tea than all of The Steady’s patrons combined, and she’s always game to try out whatever new thing Morning has dreamed up in the kitchen.

“So it’s milk,” says Signet slowly. She daintily holds up a small, innocuous rectangle of miscellaneous flavor. “But it’s solid. But it’s not cheese.”

Morning nods.

“I see.”

The way she says it, Tender can almost believe her. Signet really is magic.

The milk stuff (“CalciYummm,” Morning had said. “Three M’s. That’s important.”) is currently stacked into a simple tower, which is on a plate.

Tender vaguely feels the impulse to knock it over. She doesn’t, because that would be mean.

“Does it melt?” Signet asks. “Or dissolve? I know there’s solid honey candy stuff that melts in tea.”

He looks thoughtful. “I haven’t tried. It’s a really good idea though.”

Signet, with great ceremony, lowers her piece of CalciYummm into her cup of tea.

It doesn’t melt, but it does sink.

“I guess I still need to work on the recipe,” says Morning sadly.

“You’ll get there,” Signet says, patting him on the shoulder. She eyes her tea experiment cautiously. “Sorry to be a nuisance, Tender, but could I get another cup of the same?”

“I can do it,” says Morning. “I need to put this back in the fridge anyway. You’ve been on your feet for a while, right? You should probably take a break.” He’s already moving before he finishes his sentence, the old cup in one hand and the plate of CalciYummm balanced in the other.

“He’s a nice kid,” says Signet conversationally.

“He is,” Tender replies warily, sitting down on the couch, “But he opened the shop today, and I only got here like, twenty minutes ago.”

Her suspicions are confirmed as soon as Morning returns with a tray of tea things and…another person behind him.

“Hi,” says Fourteen, shyly.

“Someone here was looking for you, Tender,” he says way too casually, setting the tray down on the low table. “Don’t worry, I can handle the register. Enjoy your break.”

Little _shit_.

“Hello,” says Signet. “I’m Signet. It’s nice to meet you. Why don’t you sit down with us?”

She gathers the folds of her skirt and moves over on the couch in a way too elegant to be called a scooch, leaving plenty of space in the middle free. Next to Tender.

“Fourteen Fifteen—oh, thank you,” says Fourteen, moving between the couch, the table, and everyone’s legs in the least comfortable, gangliest way possible.

Tender makes an outraged face behind them at Signet, who smiles peacefully back at her.

“Hi, Tender,” says Fourteen, the corner of their mouth crooking up. Less shy, now. Their legs are just a little too long for the couch, and press up against hers.

“Hey, you.” Cold-blooded double betrayals aside, she can’t help but be pleased to see them. They look better rested too, which is a nice change.

“Would you like some tea?” Signet asks. “I think Morning brought us half your kitchen, Tender.”

On the tray is a large, clear glass pot of tea, some utensils and little jars, a plate piled high with iced lavender cookies and sugar-dusted madeleines, and…three cups. Of course.

“That’s about how much you drink, usually,” Tender says, without bite. She turns back to Fourteen. “Want to try some?”

Fourteen sips politely at their cup, but Tender notices that a good third of the pastries are gone before they’ve even finished it. Signet usually takes her tea unadorned, and this one is particularly strong; Fourteen’s tastes, as far as Tender has been able to deduce, lean towards lighter, sweeter things. She’s more of a coffee person herself, but she prefers stronger teas just like she does with coffee.

“Not really to your taste?” says Signet, not unkindly. “That’s alright, you know.”

“I don’t really have tea that often,” Fourteen admits. They perk up. “But Tender has helped me with that, actually. I don’t remember what it was called, but she made me a very calming tea when I was feeling poorly the other day.”

“Oh?” Signet says, glancing sidelong at her. “That was kind of her. She does have excellent taste, doesn’t she?” Another smile. “There’s a reason I’m always in here, after all.”

“She does!” Fourteen says, smiling back. “She’s really talented.”

Tender sullenly stuffs a madeleine into her mouth because there is really only so much she can handle at once.

Later, Signet gets up to take the tray back to Morning and simply waves Tender back down when she offers to do it instead. Somehow, the couch feels more crowded with less people on it.

“There’s something I forgot to ask you,” says Fourteen, gently bumping their knee with hers.

“Yeah?”

“What _is_ your favorite drink? In case I need to thank you again next time.”

“Try not to get so beat up again, maybe. Then you won’t need to thank me at all,” she says. “But fine. I don’t know about favorites, but I like iced coffees more, generally.”

“Noted,” says Fourteen.

 

\- -

 

Everyone is talking about Worthy of Grace, the overnight opera sensation.

Tender has seen the video of their debut by now, and their songs are all over the radio—she’s even caught Morning singing one under his breath, tapping his fingers on the side of a flour sifter.

Also.

Worthy of Grace is here. In Tender’s shop.

They’re sitting at a table in the corner, in theory inconspicuous but not so much that they go entirely unnoticed. They have a big, floppy hat on, a lavender-colored trench coat tied at the waist, and a pair of sunglasses with round pink lenses. It’s a very disguise-y disguise.

“Hello,” they say to her, with a pretty smile. “Do you want an autograph?”

Tender takes one look at Worthy of Grace and immediately lets out a sigh. In relief or exasperation, she can’t tell.

“ _Fourteen_.”

Fourteen Fifteen beams at her, their operatic smile slipping into a poorly-contained grin. It’s less elegant but more genuine.

“You’re getting good at this!”

Tender drops down into the seat opposite them. “What happened this time?”

“Just business,” says Fourteen, waving their hand dismissively. “You know how it is.”

They’ve always been vague about the exact nature of their…situation, and Tender can’t tell if they’re deliberately trying to downplay it or if it simply doesn’t matter as much to them. It’s worrying either way.

“Not really, no.” She frowns. “And you’re fine with it?”

“Peachy,” says Fourteen. Their grin slips a little though, and their shoulders slump. “Well, it…didn’t go great at the end, but at least I’m peachy now.”

They don’t offer anything else about it, so Tender doesn’t pry. New wounds, right? She knows all about those.

“I’m on my break,” she lies. “Want some company?”

“I—yeah. I would.”

 

\- -

 

Fourteen Fifteen comes into The Steady most days now, all holographic silk and glittering earrings. They always pick out some new pastry to try and acquiesce good-naturedly to Tender’s attempts to find them a new usual drink. They’ve also gotten into the habit of leaving tickets to their shows for her under the sugar caddy.

There’s always a little envelope with a note, and they say things like _Have fun!_ and _See you there!_ signed off with a lipstick kiss.

“That’s gay as shit, Tender,” says Morning.

“They’re just being friendly,” she protests. “They’re like, a super famous pop star. It’s part of the persona.”

She stares down at the note in her hands.

 _Hope you like the show!_ it reads, followed by a slightly smudged blotch of shimmery purple lipstick. The paper smells faintly of perfume.

“Signet?” she and Morning say at the same time, looking to her for guidance.

Signet takes a long, calming sip from her cup of tea.

“Tender,” she says, with all the intonation of a doomsday oracle about to deliver a final portent, “It _is_ gay as shit.”

She can’t go to all the concerts, but she does go. It’s been a while since she’s actually gone _out_ out.

Somehow, Fourteen catches sight of her in the crowd more often than not. The first time, they grin and blow her a kiss, and Tender blushes so intensely that she’s sure some hobby astronomer is going to ask where that extra sun in the Mirage came from all of a sudden.

 _It’s fine, I’m fine, it’s just part of the performance_ , she tells herself over and over. That way, she thinks, she’ll be ready for it next time.

She…isn’t. But she’s trying. She’ll get there eventually.

Tender would probably be alright if it ended there. Then she could just go home after, sleep off the buzzing in her nerves, and pretend it was all residual excitement from the concert. But she sees Fourteen all the time now—sees them laughing quietly into their drink, brushing their hair out of their eyes, slipping tickets under the sugar for her and thinking she doesn’t notice.        

“Did you like it?” they’ll ask the next day after a concert. “How’d I do?”

Fourteen’s face will be upturned, the suggestion of a smile at their lips, not willing to be drawn out until she responds. And Tender will look them in the eyes, and smile back, and she’ll say….she’ll say…she’ll...

 _Oh_ , Tender thinks, with startling, terrifying clarity.

Oh _no_.

 

\- -

 

Sometimes Fourteen will catch Tender after a show and usher her into their dressing room just to hang out. She doesn’t know how they always find her or how they can avoid being spotted by their hordes of fans; it must be a skillset from their _other_ job.

“ _Darling_ ,” says Tender, stretching out on the chaise longue, _“Your voice has bewitched me.”_

She pauses, delicately.

“What does the rest of it say?” Fourteen asks. They pop a chocolate truffle into their mouth and offer the box to Tender.

“It gets pretty…risqué.” Tender picks one out and bites into it. Mm, coconut crème.

She skims the rest of the letter. Turns it over. Moves onto the next page.

Wow.

Okay.

So. This is kind of her fault. Curiosity killed the etc., etc. But the first thing Tender had seen in Fourteen’s room had been a huge mountain of fan letters, and she’s not like, nosy or anything, _but_.

Fourteen seems to find it entertaining, anyway.

They reach over and snatch the letter out of her hands, fingers brushing hers for just a second. Tender startles at the sudden movement, scattering those love letters already read to the floor.

“Hm!” they say. “Interesting.”

“You’re adjusting to this intergalactic pop idol thing pretty well,” says Tender, willing down the creeping flush in her cheeks. Come _on_.

“I’m having fun.” Fourteen grins at her over the paper. They’ve kicked off their heels, and their dress from the encore—some flashy, swishy number with gilded feathers—is being mercilessly wrinkled from the way they’ve curled up in their chair. The skirt spills across the floor like a disc of sunlight.

“Is that it then?” Tender asks, the corner of her mouth curving. “Are you going to give it all up to do music full time?”

Fourteen hums vaguely, flicking through a sheaf of letters.

“No.”

She meant it as a joke, but their answer is so clear and matter-of-fact that it makes Tender falter.

“No?”

“It’s fun,” says Fourteen again, carefully slitting open another envelope, “But it’s just part of my job.” They take a tiny device out of it, which stutters out a handful of pixel hearts and a scrolling pink hologram of text. “It’s nice, though. I haven’t enjoyed it this much in a while.”

“Fourteen,” she says. “About your job…”

They’d mentioned in briefly a few times, but had never gone into much detail. Besides, after last time—

“I died, you know,” they say, lightly, “And all I could think while it was happening was ‘well, that could’ve gone better.’”

There isn’t really a set social script for what to say when someone tells you they’ve already died. The first responses that come to mind are automatic ones—skepticism, denial. She dismisses them. By now, Tender has seen enough weird shit to be a little more open-minded.

So instead, what she says is: “How?”

Fourteen tells her. All of it, this time: the assignments, the jumps, the bodies, the memory loss.

Tender stares.

“That,” she says, “is really fucked up.”

“Yeah,” says Fourteen, shrugging eloquently. “Kind of.”

“So when you—” It’s hard to actually say it now that she _knows_. “You can keep coming back?”

They nod. “Up to a point. It’s not forever.”

“This time,” Tender says hesitantly, “Do you think…”

“To tell you the truth,” says Fourteen, “It’s likely. As much as I’m enjoying this run, I can’t really deny that.” They lean their cheek on one hand, idle. “You know, the last time it happened, I really messed up. I have the weirdest, widest range of skills possible, but it turns out I’m still a bit lacking.” They glance across at her. “Not like you. I remember thinking that much.”

“Like me,” she says slowly, not quite a question.

Fourteen gives her a warm look. “ _You_. You’re always so comfortable with yourself, you know? Like you know where everything is and ought to be. Just look at The Steady: you change it all the time and it’s always done beautifully. I could learn a lot from you.”

“It’s only the aesthetic settings in the Mesh. Anyone could do them.” Because they can’t know about her abilities, can they? She hasn’t—

“You’re so modest.” Fourteen dimples at her. They have them this time, and are in the habit of misusing them. “You have many talents, of course. You’re an artist, anyone can see that. You’re good at talking to people, because you’re very charming and persuasive—”

“Do you mean about coffee?” Tender interrupts. She has to do _something_ about this before she actually combusts. “That’s only because you don’t like it and I said, ‘Hey we have other drinks actually.’ It wasn’t a hard sell.”

They only laugh at that.

“Alright, so,” Tender says. “Are you…okay? Like at all, I guess?” She winces.

“Yes.” They pause, perusing the box of truffles for another. “No? I think I used to be. I’m not so sure now.” Their fingers pluck out a chocolate heart, dusty with cocoa powder.

Then Fourteen gets up and plops themself down next to Tender, the skirt of their dress tangling with her legs. They offer her the box, lips still smeared with chocolate and sugar.

“What about you?” they ask.

“About this? Or in general?”

“Both.”

It’s a good question, and one she hasn’t considered much as of late. Tender considers the box instead. “Fine, probably? I’m not sure either. You don’t need to worry about me, though.”

“Of _course_ I’m going to, Tender,” they say, like it would be absurd to even think otherwise. As if worrying about Tender instead of their fucked up job is just another fact of their very strange universe.

She nudges Fourteen’s foot with her own somewhere in the sea of feathers and satin, brown against brown.

“Want me to read another letter?”

Fourteen leans their head on her shoulder, their hair mingling with hers. “Sure.”

 

\- -

 

“I can drop you off,” says Fourteen one night. “I have a job later anyway.”

Tender flaps her hand at them half-heartedly. Her objection turns into a yawn partway through.

“Ah,” they say wisely, “See?”

She glares at them. Well, Fourteen is a fancy pop star now. They have the fancy pop star means to shuttle her around at all hours. Why not?

The ride is quiet, save for Tender’s occasional directions. Streetlights slant in through the windows in brief colors, and Fourteen hums along with the radio.

They walk Tender to the steps of her apartment building. It feels strangely formal, like she’s accidentally acquired a bodyguard. Or like they’ve just been on a first date. Or both.

Fourteen lingers in the doorway, their hair a mess of residual glitter and sweat curling in the heat. Their makeup is starting to smear at the edges.

They lean in close, like they’re about to share a secret.

Her heart skips, dizzyingly.

“Fourteen—”

“Tender—”

They stare at each other, embarrassed into a standstill.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Fourteen promises.

 

\- -

 

Well, they’re not wrong.

 

\- -

 

Tender nearly doesn’t hear the knocking over the music from her earbuds, and she has to pop one out to be sure.

“Sorry!” she calls out, peeking out from the back of The Steady, “We’re closed!”

The knocking persists. She frowns.

It’s dark now, and the rain makes everything outside soft and indistinct. Still, as she gets closer, she can just make out a small, huddled figure through the glass of the shop door, slumped against the frame.

“Woah.” She unlocks the door with heavy thunk and pulls it open. “Hey, are you—”

They practically fall in through the doorway, stumbling and dripping rainwater, and it’s only Tender’s hands that keep them upright.

Pale hair, darkened with rain. Thin fingers curling into her sleeve.

“Tender,” they say, in a voice she hasn’t heard before.

“…Fourteen?”

“Hi,” Fourteen murmurs, “Hello. Sorry about this.”

She can feel them shivering, can feel the water seeping into her own clothes. Something small and sharp catches in her chest, insinuating as a needle.

Tender turns the heat all the way up and rummages around until she finds one of the spare shirts that Morning keeps around in case of kitchen accidents. It isn’t too big for Fourteen, just a little long, and at least it’s dry. They’re smaller now, and shorter than she is, which is new.

“So,” she says, setting down two cups of hot chocolate on the table, “Again?”

Fourteen pushes their hair back sheepishly. It’s only a bit damp now, working itself into snags and tangles as it dries. “Yeah.”

She sighs. “Any reason you’re here instead of a hospital? _Also_ again?”

“I’m not hurt,” says Fourteen.

Tender raises her eyebrows.

“Anymore,” they correct themself.

“That doesn’t make me feel that much better,” she says, sliding into the seat opposite.

“Sorry.” Fourteen looks down into their hot chocolate like the truth of the universe is contained in its sugary depths. “It didn’t go well. I just… Afterwards, the only place I could think about going to was here.”

“The weather’s awful,” says Tender, pointlessly. “What if you got like, pneumonia or something? What if I’d already left?” But she reaches haltingly across the table and rests her fingers on Fourteen’s, tips to tips. They’re cold.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“…You have horns now, you know.”

They raise their other hand, fingers brushing against the little raised nubs peeking out from under their hair. “I know. I’ve never had those before. It’s odd.”

Tender curls her own fingers closer to Fourteen’s.

“Want to stay at my place?”

Fourteen nods.

 

\- -

 

Once they get to Tender’s apartment, she pulls out some better clothes for Fourteen to sleep in. Those will be a little too big for them too, but at least they won’t smell like burnt flour and old coffee.

It’s surprisingly mundane. Tender orders some pizza for what could honestly be called breakfast at this point. Fourteen wanders around the apartment aimlessly, squinting at all her books and things.

“I think,” they say, settling down on the couch beside her, “I might need glasses this time.”

“Is that why you were squinting?” Tender hands them a plate of pizza. “I thought you were just being judgmental about my taste.”

After eating, they both take turns getting cleaned up in the bathroom. Tender is just about ready to fall asleep herself when she remembers the clothes and hastily goes to hand them to Fourteen through the door.

The shorts are blue and have little clouds on them. The t-shirt is so old you can hardly read the graphic on it anymore, something pithy about coffee and mornings. Fourteen looks astonishingly, sleepily soft in them.

They amble over to the bed and sit down next to Tender, who is lying on her back with her feet still on the ground.

“You can have the bed if you want,” she says, eyes closed, “Or you can have the couch if you want that instead. But I’m fine with sharing if you are. It’s a big bed.”

She thinks she might have cared more if she was less exhausted, but she isn’t. Oh well.

“I don’t mind,” says Fourteen, looking down at her. Their hair is damp from the shower this time, gathered messily over one shoulder. A few wayward strands stick to their neck, the underside of their jaw.

Neither of them are awake enough to overthink this. In the end, nothing about it feels difficult or strange at all.

“Good night, Tender,” Fourteen mumbles from the other side of the bed.

“Night.”

 

\- -

 

It is still dark when Tender stirs awake some indiscernible amount of time later, but just barely. She doesn’t pay much attention to it.

She faintly registers an arm slung loosely over her stomach, hair brushing against her back, a leg slotted between her own.

It’s warm. She goes back to sleep.

 

\- -

 

  

> _Thanks for letting me stay. I’ll see you soon._

 

Tender yawns, dragging a hand through her impossible bedhead.

She looks down at the note again. No name, but Fourteen never did that anyway. There isn’t a lipstick kiss this time, but a smiley face with two little pointy horns doodled on top of it. She covers her mouth with her fingertips and feels herself smile.

 

\- -

 

A few days later, there’s a deadly assassin standing in Tender’s doorway.

She wishes she'd had some warning. It’s her day off. She’s still in her pajamas, and they aren’t even the interesting semi-sheer lace ones.

“Tender,” says Fourteen, “I’m supposed to kill you.”

Tender takes the bagel out of her mouth.

“Okay,” she says. “Are you coming in?”

“ _Tender—_ ” But Fourteen follows her inside anyway, closing the door carefully behind them. Tender can tell they’re being careful; they might be a dangerous bounty hunter, but generally, Fourteen Fifteen left to their own devices could make a ruckus in a room full of cotton balls.

“Do you want juice?” says Tender, sticking her head into the fridge. “I have orange juice and some kind of berry medley thing. I could make tea.” She peers over at Fourteen over the top of the door. “Are you hungry? Sit down. Have a bagel.”

“I’m not hungry,” says Fourteen. They fold themself obediently into a kitchen chair regardless. “Tender—”

“You got glasses,” she says, pulling a few things out and bumping the door shut with her hip. She also grabs a mug and a plate from the dish rack.

“Yes.” Fourteen pushes them up their nose with the knuckle of their forefinger—a new nervous tic, already developed. “Why aren’t you more worried?” they say. They look down at their plate. “What. What is this.”

“Milk,” says Tender.

“But it’s—”

“I know. But I have like, so much. I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve been putting it on toast?”

Fourteen, successfully distracted, eyes the rectangles of CalciYummm layered on their toasted bagel. They poke at one piece cautiously, and it sinks depressingly into the bagel as if it were made of lead.

“So,” says Tender, dropping into a chair and crossing one leg over the other, “Are you going to kill me?”

Fourteen flinches. “I can’t. Of course I can’t.”

She rests her chin in her hand, staring evenly across at them. “Why not?”

“I don’t _want_ to.” They look at her miserably. “It’s—it was a contract. I just…forgot about it.”

“That’s a big thing to forget.” But Tender knows now how vulnerable Fourteen’s memory can be.

“It is,” they say, rubbing their eyes wearily behind their glasses, “But I didn’t forget all of it, just the way it was supposed to end. I remembered you.” They laugh, a gloomy little sound. “At first, I only…I thought maybe we might have already known each other, and that I’d forgotten somehow. Like maybe we were old friends, and I wanted so badly to—to remember, to get it back.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I knew you were important to me.”

“Was it because of the job?” Tender asks, quietly.

Fourteen breathes in, straightens their shoulders. Looks her in the eye. “Not anymore.”

Silence drops. The moment stretches, thin and brittle as glass. Tender realizes that Fourteen is waiting for her to say something, and that they’re entirely willing to wait as long as it takes.

“Tell me about the contract,” she says. Well, she has a right to know, doesn’t she?

So they do. It comes in bits and pieces, painstakingly rearranged into order. Some parts of it sound like Fourteen was turning them over in their head long enough to become rote. They pull out some folded papers from inside their coat; it’s a new copy, but already wrinkled as if it’s been taken out and put away over and over.

Tender takes the contract and reads it. Her gaze snags on an old name, stinging and sharp like a tiny barb under her skin. Then she folds the paper back into its messy square and puts in the center of the table.

Fourteen is still looking at her, wordless, hands anxiously knitted together in their lap.

“What now, then?” says Tender.

“I don’t know.” Their shoulders slump. “The other night—I came to find you as soon as I found out, but I—I was scared to tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Fourteen.” Tender reaches across and touches her fingers to their cheek, her thumb along their cheekbone. It’s stupid and foolish and she shouldn’t, and she does it anyway. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me,” she says, “But I need time to think about this.” Her hand drops.

They just nod. Tender doesn’t watch them go.

 

\- -

 

Morning sets down a plate of sandwiches and a cup of water on the table in front of Tender.

She pushes the cup off the table, petulantly.

“Did that help?” he asks.

“Kind of.”

“And you’re sure you’re good?” he asks, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“You asked me that literally five minutes ago. I’m sure,” she says. “You should get back to the front. I’ll clean this up.”

“…Do you want another cup?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “Try to eat something. Give me a shout if…just give me a shout whenever.”

As she picks away at a sandwich, she looks absently around at the back of The Steady. It isn’t a big kitchen and only slightly burnt at certain edges. It’s clean and functional and smells comfortingly of sugar, brewing coffee, and things baking in the oven. Quiet, easy, mundane.

She didn’t think this was something she would do forever, maybe, but the prospect of having something small and entirely hers had appealed to her last year. If she could manage one shop, then she could at least manage the rest of her life into something less complicated, right? At this smaller scale, things should have been easier to control. For a while, her biggest problems had been balancing her inventory and figuring out names for the menu. Both of those were easily preferable to surprise multi-consciousness godhood.

And, then…well.

Did other café owners usually have to deal with assassination attempts? Probably not. Never mind the actual assassins. Did it count as thwarting if she didn’t really do anything? She wonders if she should tell her mercy officer about this.

It’s been a week. She’s started having The Steady open at more…standard hours, hoping the increase in business might take her mind off things. It’s a partial success; she _is_ busier, but almost everything she makes reminds her of—

Well, it’s not as if that’s difficult. They _had_ tried almost everything on the menu, mostly because she’d been the one to suggest it.

Actually, she never did ask about the reason for all of that. She’d always meant to, but…

She’s still angry—for a lot of reasons, at nearly everything. Mostly, she feels cheated—she had thought she was on the upward trajectory of okay, even if it was slow, and things had looked like they were really—really—

It _stings_. It won’t go away. She has always been patient with working slow, but she can’t stand being forced all the way back to square one.

Tender hasn’t seen Fourteen since that day, and she is honest enough with herself to admit that she misses them. Only she doesn’t know what to do about it, so the feeling lingers unaddressed in the back of her mind, growing and tangling like a neglected garden.

Normally, she has some skeleton of a plan, a set parameter for action. Anything, she thinks, should be feasible with enough time and patience.

This time—her mind simply hits a wall. She can’t unscramble herself enough to make a plan. She doesn’t think she can really be sure until she sees Fourteen again.

Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe she just wants to see them again to see them again.

She sighs. _Maybe_ she should just go home—

There is an explosion of sound from the front of The Steady—breaking glass, miscellaneous crashing, and a gratuitous amount of swearing. Only some of it belongs to Morning.

It probably says something about Tender’s current emotional state that she is hardly fazed; she just puts down her lunch and rushes out into the chaos.

The first thing she sees is the huge, absolutely unnecessary hole in the wall, which is slightly on fire and very much smoking.

The second thing is the assassins.

You really couldn’t mistake them for anything else. An all-black somewhat tasteless ensemble that was probably very good camouflage at night in places where there wasn’t a lot of light pollution, though it wasn’t much help now at 3 PM in the afternoon in a coffee shop that highlighted most of its tasteful décor with natural lighting.

Oh, and the swords. Those were a big hint.

Tender has, at this point, had enough.

She grabs the first thing her hands can find and swings it at the nearest assassin with all the strength of a week’s worth of badly-suppressed, ultimately explosive frustration.

The thing in question happens to be an industrial-sized bottle of caramel sauce, and which sends the assassin to the ground with an extremely satisfying and slightly gooey _crack_.

“Morning!” she shouts, “Get everyone out of here!”

She doesn’t have a chance to check if he does—someone else is coming at her, stupid fucking sword raised, and she barely has time to duck before a flash of color whips out in front of her and wraps around them.

“Hey,” greets Signet blandly, bracing her feet and giving the whip—Sash? Rope? Haute couture lasso?—a hard tug and knocking the assassin down. She’s also apparently changed into some tight, armored flightsuit-looking thing in the microsecond everyone else was distracted, and _boy_ does Tender have questions, mainly about her tailor, but, right, that’s for later—

Two down, then. Tender grits her teeth.

The thing is that it’s easy. It’s _always_ been easy for her.

All she has to is draw her hands up, patterns springing from the back of her mind like they never left. The air shifts and shimmers and changes _just_ so—

People used to tell her she could move the earth beneath them with a wave of her hand. Right now, she settles for the floor.

And then there are palm trees, and cheerfully striped beach chairs, and everything suddenly smells faintly of coconut and sunscreen. The two remaining assassins stumble as they run towards her, their feet slipping clumsily in the clean, golden, glittering sand.

The air burns with the heat of the worst summer in living memory, or at least in hers. Tender brings her arms up, and the sand flows with it, burying the two figures with an inappropriately smooth-sounding crash.

It’s honestly kind of funny. That could also be the adrenaline talking, leaving her skin prickling and her fingers twitching as she sags against a wall.

“Ha,” says Tender without any humor at all, right as she sees the flash of a blade in the corner of her eye.

_“Tender!”_

A small, compact body crashes into her, incidentally driving a surprisingly hard head directly into her solar plexus. She gasps as she goes tumbling into the sand, thoroughly breathless.

“Are you okay?” says Fourteen Fifteen hoarsely, eyes bright with panic, their arms still around her. “I—oh god! Sorry!”

 _They’ve lost their glasses somewhere_ , Tender thinks hazily.

Abruptly, an unseen radio starts playing an old song about summer days and explosions and falling in love because Tender’s skills have always been at least a little tied in with her emotions, which is really so embarrassing sometimes—

Fourteen clambers hastily off her, dragging her up as they go.

Right, okay, assassins, _different_ assassins, that was a thing.

The two of them duck behind the counter for cover, Fourteen clutching her hand all the way. Meanwhile, Tender grasps at the space behind the bar, searching, and… _ha!_

A shot rings out through the din of The Steady, completely missing its target but it’s enough to make them hesitate. It sounds a lot like a cat meowing.

“You have a gun?” Fourteen asks, bewildered. “Wait, is that the sound your gun makes?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Tender says defensively.

A sword slices down into the space between their heads, burying itself inextricably in the wood. They see the blade wobble, still stuck, like someone is deeply regretting some recent decisions.

Tender scrambles to her feet. The assassin has the decency to look at least somewhat embarrassed when she points her gun at them.

“Morning!” she calls, vaguely, “Do we have any rope in the back?”

From somewhere indiscernible, he shouts, “Why the _fuck_ would we have rope? Also, are you good?”

“Yes!”

Next to her, Fourteen pulls themself up, covered in dust and squinting abstractly at a blurry world. “I could find rope?” they say, uncertainly.

“Don’t worry,” says Signet, appearing out of the smoke and sand and disorderly beach chairs like some high concept battle angel. “I’ve got this.” She gives a sharp tug to her weird sash thing so that it ties itself around the last assassin. She tugs it again, and the sash rolls the assassin until they bump against the _last_ assassin Signet had incapacitated, and wraps them up nice and neat like the world’s worst birthday present.

Tender surveys the room. It’s only on fire a tiny bit now, which is a vast improvement. She counts the rest of the assassins to be sure: two stuck under the sand, and one unconscious on the ground and drizzled liberally in caramel. Good.

She glimpses a glimmer among the rubble and sand, and bends down to pick it up.

“I found your glasses.”

Fourteen smiles up at her, abashed. “Thanks.” They gingerly take them from her, using the hem of their shirt to wipe at the lenses before putting them back on.

“Everyone alright, then?” says Signet. She dusts herself off delicately, looking more like she went on a brisk power walk than someone who was, up until a minute ago, wrangling assassins like they were cattle.

“Yeah, I think so,” says Tender. “Thanks, I really…” She trails off, and narrows her eyes.

Signet blinks serenely back at her, totally unbothered by the pile of assassins, the lightly smoking impromptu egress to The Steady, and the fact that her usual coffee shop is now about seventy-five percent artificial beach.

“You _know!_ ” Tender blurts out.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” says Signet. “But if you mean what I think you do, then…listen, it’s not like you changed your name or anything. And I’ve got some pretty esoteric skills myself.”

“I should’ve known there was a reason a former Excerpt kept visiting my _coffee shop_.”

“I mean, partially?” Signet says, shrugging. “I honestly do really enjoy your tea selection. It’s a happy accident. Do you have a pen?”

Tender doesn’t, so Fourteen produces one from a pocket and hands it over.

“Thank you.” Signet plucks a burning napkin from a pile of debris, blows the flame out, and lays it flat on a nearby table. She writes something on it and gives it to Tender. “Okay. Here’s the thing. I’m not as good at this as my friend is, but if you need any assistance dealing with, uh, all this…” She gestures expansively to the room. “…I can help. If you don’t, well. We could use someone like you, if you’re interested in some additional lines of work.” Her gaze slides over to Fourteen, who jumps and steps instinctively closer to Tender. “You too, Fourteen. I’m sure you’ve got your talents as well.”

“Are you a _spy?_ ” Tender says, incredulous.

“…No.” She nods at them both. “Anyway, I can take care of these guys. _You_ look like you should sit down.”

Before Tender can guess what she means, she feels a light touch on her arm.

“You’re bleeding,” says Fourteen. “It doesn’t look so bad, but we should get it cleaned up.”

“My shop is on fire,” Tender points out, dazed.

“Only a little,” says Signet helpfully.

“I got it!” Morning marches by with a fire extinguisher, looking determined. “Go fucking sit down, Tender.”

“Come on,” says Fourteen softly, and she lets herself be led.

 

\- -

 

“I quit my job.”

“I didn’t know you could quit,” says Tender. She’s sitting in the only chair the kitchen has, which is really more of a small step ladder. Fourteen is kneeling on the ground in front of her, picking through the meager first-aid kit that she kept under the kitchen counter. It’s mostly burn gel and bandages, but she isn’t that hurt anyway.

“I don’t know how official it is. I’m not working for them anymore though.”

 Tender hums, considering. “So, do you think those assassins were here for me or you?”

“Could be both.”

“Great.”

They tug at her hand and she holds her arm out. There is a long scrape all along one side, not too deep but still raw and red. Fourteen cleans it up with a strange kind of expertise—nothing professional, but they’re clearly used to doing it, even if it’s apparent from the slight fumbling that it’s only for themself. There are smaller cuts and bruises here and there, one on her cheekbone and another just under her ankle, but nothing else.

Fourteen is very, very careful. They keep glancing up at her to gauge her expression, but otherwise don’t speak.

Their glasses slip down their nose. Without thinking, Tender reaches out with her free hand and pushes them back up.

“Ah,” says Fourteen, blinking. “Thanks.”

Another minute passes before Tender says, “What were you doing here?”

Fourteen startles, fingers twitching on her arm. “Oh. I. Uh.” They look down, and their glasses droop with them.

_“Fourteen.”_

“I missed you,” they say to the floor. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t think you’d want to see me, and I was going to turn around before I even went in, but…”

“My shop was on fire.”

“And the assassins.”

After a moment, Tender says, “Actually I…have a question.”

Fourteen nods, still intent on their work. Their fingers brush gently across her ankle.

And…Tender finally asks them about the coffee.

The question surprises Fourteen; it’s obviously not the one they’re expecting.

“Oh,” they say, more a mumble than anything, “That. It’s—well, every time I saw you, I just ended up saying the first thing that came to mind. The problem was I only knew the one thing.” The side of their mouth curves into a lopsided smile. “Pretty silly, I guess.”

Tender stares down at them, amazed.

Fourteen smooths down the last bandaid with the pad of their thumb. “All done.”

They look up at her again before their gaze skitters away, like it’s something they’re not allowed to do anymore, like this time will be the last.

When they start to get up, Tender reaches out and cups their cheek in the palm of her hand. Her chest feels light.

Fourteen freezes, eyes wide.

 _Enough,_ Tender thinks, and kisses them.

They lean up into her space, bring their trembling arms around her, curl their fingers tightly into her shirt. Their glasses get in the way. Tender’s back hits the wall behind her.

Fourteen pulls away first, cheeks dark with color. They look at her like a miracle.

 _“Tender,”_ they say, a sigh breathed into the air between them.

Then, decisively, they take their glasses off and tuck them away in a pocket.

Tender laughs, and pulls them close again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. technically. is a cat cafe  
> 2\. this was originally ~2500 words. I........yeah
> 
>  
> 
> thanks to @vilecrocodile for going over this and helping make it even gayer

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] the cat who got the whipped cream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15450456) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




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